


History (We Could Be)

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [36]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: The relationship between the two of them is not perfect, consists of balances and compromises and promises they can only hope to keep.Or,A series of stories in two parts, as Fareeha and Angela change, and grow, and their relationship, too, changes with them.





	1. Adoption/Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> im doing eight of these for 1) hanukkah presents, one for each day and 2) overwatchwlw's overwatch winter femslash fest which... i am running... bc thats my sideblog... lmao
> 
> BUT bc my life has been wild i didnt write any in advance so HaHa lets write eight 3k fics in eight days what could go wrong am i right, ladies?

# Adoption

For much of her life, Angela has been alone, has needed to care for herself, and so now, in her late thirties, she knows well enough what it is she should do to calm herself.  When she is angry, she showers—a hot shower, and not a cold one, as if she could burn out the bitterness inside of her, as if her feelings were something she could so easily cast off—and by the time she is done, the anger usually fades to a simmering, to something she can focus and control.  When she is anxious, she flits restlessly from problem to problem in her research, as if fixing _one_ thing were the solution to thousands, and if that does not work she goes for a long walk by the cliffs, feeds the birds, until _something_ comes to her, some solution to a smaller problem, something just enough to divert her attention from whatever is the true cause of her worry.  When she is like this, is bitter and sad and self-pitying all at once, is feeling much too much for any one person to process, she locks herself in her quarters, alone with herself, because she cannot face anyone, does not want them to see her like this and see how selfish she is, how afraid; her team needs her, their doctor, their battle medic, their last chance at survival when they are hit.  Her team needs her, and they need her to be strong.

So alone she shall be, alone she _ought_ to be, until she can push this back—not process it, not really, but wait long enough for it to pass, as all things do—lest she say something out of turn, allow the others to see her like this, as she truly is.

Alone she _ought_ to be, but her quarters are no longer only her own and Fareeha—Fareeha who is selfless, Fareeha who is kind, Fareeha who is deserving of so much more than _this_ —has come looking for her and, of course, found her.

A small mercy: she is not crying, not yet.

(When she cries, it is ugly, so she has been told and so she knows.  Her tears are not quiet, are too often tinged with bitterness, and her skin splotches and nose runs and she is _loud,_ too loud in her sadness.)

A small mercy: Fareeha does not ask a question.

(Fareeha does not ask _What happened?_ Or _Why are you upset?_ Or _Why did you leave dinner in such a hurry?_ Or _Why are the lights off?_ Or _Are you okay?_   It is a good thing she does not; Angela does not know how to answer any of those things.)

A small mercy: Fareeha does not ask Angela to look at her.

(How can she face Fareeha, who is so good and kind and giving, and discuss any of this?  How can she face Fareeha and say all of the terrible things she is thinking and feeling, how selfish she is, how childish?  She _ought_ to be better than this, ought not to think about these things any longer.  She has Fareeha now, what more does she need?  What more could she ask for?  Why must covetousness be one of her mides?)

Of the two of them, it is she who is called mercy, but if either of them embodies such a trait, it is Fareeha, Fareeha who does not ask things of her she cannot do, Fareeha who is patient and good, who says only, “If you need to talk—you know I’m here, right?”

If Angela were braver, she might say what it is that is on her mind, or she might have sought Fareeha out in the first place, but part of her is afraid, afraid that if she admits to the things she is thinking, she will not be loveable, will prove herself to be— _wonting_ (and wanting, both).

Instead what she says is, “I’m just being stupid,” and is thankful that Fareeha will say nothing of the tremor in her voice.

“I’m sure,” says Fareeha, in that half-amused way she has when something is _very serious_ but she needs to diffuse tension somehow, “That you’re not being _stupid_.  Perhaps another adjective?”

Angela smiles a bit, then, appreciates the effort from Fareeha, and wonders why it is smiles can be called _watery_.

“No,” she agrees and then—a moment of bravery, “Not stupid, but selfish.”

To her credit, Fareeha does not attempt to joke about that; Angela _is_ selfish, and both of them know it, just as they know Fareeha is prideful and a touch vain.  Such is not a bad thing, it simply _is_ , and it is better to know one’s flaws, to accept and to name them, than to deny them. 

Fareeha knows Angela is selfish, but she does not know _how_ selfish.

“I see,” says she, slow and measured, and Angela can tell she wants to know more—Fareeha is inquisitive, or impatient, depending on how one wishes to frame the situation.

They sit there in silence for a few moments more, and Angela wants to speak, to tell Fareeha, even if she is afraid to, because it is hard, keeping secrets, hard being alone, hard holding things inside of herself and knowing she can never, ever let them go.  One secret is not so heavy, but now—now she has too many for any one person to carry, and they weigh her down.

Fareeha’s impatience balances Angela’s cowardice well—eventually, she asks, “What do you want?”

Angela is thinking: _I am thankful that you asked the question like that, in a way I could answer,_ for Fareeha has asked it rightly; at the heart of all selfishness there is _wanting_.

(The wanting is itself easy to name, is neutral, is never so bad—selfishness is not only wanting something, but wanting something even at the expense of others.)

“A family,” she admits, for it sounds less childish that way, to say she wants a _family_ and not _parents_.  She is not normally like this, bitter still about something the Omnics took from her decades before, but something about having Ingrid visit, seeing she, Brigitte, and Torbjörn all together, a family—seeing and knowing that somehow, Brigitte deserved a family and she did not—

It is selfish, selfish beyond all measure.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Fareeha, as if she understands, as if she _could,_ and then, after a pause, “I mean—I don’t think I… well—Motherhood isn’t really um, in the cards for me right now.”

It shocks a laugh out of Angela, but not a pretty one, one that is too sharp, is torn from her, and sounds so.  Fareeha’s assumption is generous; the things Angela covets are never quite so benign.

“No,” she corrects, “Parents.” 

(Why is it easier to say such things when correcting people?  Why can she not be honest and open without being like _this_?)

“You’re not like this with me and Mum,” Fareeha says, before she could possibly have had time to consider such a statement.  “But I guess there isn’t much to be jealous of, there.”

(Angela does not say _I would take that_ , even if it is true, even if she thinks that perhaps the pain of her parents returning, the betrayal of them having lied to her, having misled her for so long, would be better than—this, being judged and found wanting, every time.  She does not say it, for to do so would sound as if she were dismissing Fareeha’s own struggles, would seem to trivialize the very difficult work Fareeha has been doing of rebuilding her relationship with her own mother.  That would be too unfair, even for Angela.)

“You aren’t adopted,” Angela says, and it is a correction, again, and she thinks to herself: _This is why no one wanted you.  Selfish and self-righteous and self-absorbed._

“Oh,” says Fareeha, again, and this time Angela thinks she might understand.

“Yes it’s,” she falters, “Unfair of me.”  That is true, if an understatement.  “And selfish and just—terrible besides.  But I see them and I think—”

When she breathes in, it is jagged, and she knows she is going to cry, _damn it_ , and it is going to be ugly and Fareeha will only hate her more for it but—

“—I think, _Why not me?_ I wonder why it is that she’s… better.  Why she was chosen, and I wasn’t and I don’t hate her, I really don’t, but…”

But nothing.  Angela _does_ hate Brigitte, sometimes, and the thousands of other children like her, children who were _good enough_ to have parents choose them, children who were better than Angela, who deserved what she did not.

“Shh,” Fareeha tells her, and pulls her close, even though Angela will undoubtedly get tears and snot on her sweater and ruin that, too, will dirty Fareeha just by feeling such things near her.

Fareeha has no words of comfort—for what could one say to such a thing?—but it is worth something, Angela thinks, that Fareeha has seen her like this, and has not pushed her away, is worth something that even this _worst_ of her has not made her unworthy in Fareeha’s eyes. 

This is not the same as having parents, does not answer Angela’s lingering questions about why she was not _good enough_ for any of the many couples who met her, over the years, who sometimes went so far as to take her out for lunch or a trip to a museum and then, invariably, sent her back.  This is not the same but—whatever it was then that drove them away, Fareeha has seen worse from Angela, and not left her.

Perhaps one day she can stop holding her breath, and accept that Fareeha is here to stay.

# Letting Go

Children scare Fareeha—not because they are prone to lunge, and to shout, and to do a thousand other things without thinking which are unpleasant on the best of days, and send her mind to battlefields from years before on the worst of days.  Children scare Fareeha—not because to have something is to risk losing it, not because of the thousand terrible things that can happen to children, if one does not protect them, if one fails in their duty to keep them safe.  Children scare Fareeha—not because of who they are, or what they represent, but because of what they might _make_ her. 

Children scare Fareeha, for she sees too much of her mother in herself and she thinks it would be impossible for her to raise one, thinks she would only repeat the mistakes Ana made, would cling to them too tightly, until her love became smothering, and in doing so drive them away.

Children scare Fareeha, and so she hates that she wants them.

She hates that she wants them, but want them she does—despite all that they are a reminder of.

When she returns to her father’s tiny hometown, where the children all know her, and they flock to her for stories of her adventures, what she remembers is when she did the same to her mother, remembers what it was when her mother was her world, could do no wrong, was some impossibly strong and good figure.

When children recognize her, or Angela, or Lúcio, or any of the others when they go out, and ask for a photograph, call them heroes despite all they have done, so trusting and innocent and unaware of what it is to truly be a soldier, she thinks of when she idolized Reinhardt, when she begged her mother to be allowed to meet him, and thought him a gallant knight—never seeing then how haunted he was but what he had seen, blinded by his joyous façade.

When she saves children, she remembers seeing her mother on holovids, teasing a laugh out of a child that Gabriel had pulled out of the rubble, or giving a football to children in some town Overwatch had passed through, and playing with the children there—remembers seeing those images and being angry, for Ana had not the time to do the same with her, remembers being jealous of children who were less fortunate than she in so many ways, because they stole from her Ana’s time and, she thought, affection.

As an adult, Fareeha can recognize the immaturity of her childhood response to her mother’s work—but she also knows that immaturity is to be expected of children, and that she cannot blame herself for thinking so.

For a time, this meant she blamed her mother, thought that if her mother had done something different, perhaps her childhood would not have been so painful.

(Still, there are things she blames her mother for, but those came later, were conversations in her late teenage years in which she knows she, too, is at fault.)

Now, although there are things she knows she would do differently from Ana, mistakes she knows she could learn from, Fareeha is beginning to understand why her mother made the decisions she did—and understanding is not forgiveness, is not justification, but it is _something_ , and with it comes a lessening of pain, an acceptance that the past cannot be changed, but the future between the two of them is something they can yet define, is not a thing which may be ruled by the past, even where it is informed by it.

With this acceptance (this not-forgiveness) she develops with her mother, with the subsequent lessening of pain, things are easier.  Some of the things which are easier make sense: when people say she and her mother are alike, it does not chafe so much as it used to—they are alike, and Fareeha knows their differences well enough to be secure in the fact that she is her own woman, first and foremost, and to know that when people see her, they did not see only her mother, not anymore.  Some of the things which are easier are slightly more complicated: she thinks differently, on the field, knowing her mother is there, acts differently; she is never unreliable, but she is _changed_ in a way she cannot place, by knowing how command ended for her mother, and knowing, too, that her mother, the same woman who warned her away from this life, can see all she does.  Some of the things which are easier are entirely unexpected.

Children scare Fareeha, and she thinks that perhaps that will always be so; there is so much one can do wrong, so much that can go wrong, even when one does things correctly.  One can hurt children by not loving them, and by loving them _too much._ One can hurt children by being too distant, and by being too present.  One can hurt children by a thousand extremes and moderation—moderation is not one of Fareeha’s virtues.

Children scare Fareeha, but she wants them.

When she returns to her father’s tiny hometown, where the children all know her, and they flock to her for stories of her adventures, she finds she is eager to speak to them, to entertain them and give them hope for a better future—and she will not tell them only of her battles, nor will she ignore them, but she will tell them also of Mei, of Angela, of Satya, of all the people for whom she cares who save others without bloodshed.  They will not idolize only warriors.

When children recognize her, or Angela, or Lúcio, or any of the others when they go out, and ask for a photograph, call them heroes despite all they have done, so trusting and innocent and unaware of what it is to truly be a soldier, she recognizes childhood innocence for what it is, and does not begrudge it of them—they are not the children of soldiers, and they will know before they are grown of the PETRAS Act, of all that Overwatch once did.  There is time enough for disenchantment.

 When she saves children, she brings them to Angela to be looked over, and she does not fail to notice how good Angela is with them, how she knows what to say to coax a smile and a laugh, and suddenly she wonders if the two of them having a child of their own would be so terrible, if they might not somehow balance each other out.

There was a time when she thought of motherhood and imagined only failure, only bitterness, only the taste in her mouth (like bile) when others told her she was her mother’s daughter, but that time is not now.

Yes, Ana failed her—many times, in many ways—but she is trying, now, to right things, knows and admits to her shortcomings, is willing to work with Fareeha in order to fix what it is she can, to atone for that which Fareeha will allow her to, and to put behind them that which is best left to the past.

Yes, she is bitter, but less and less so; her mother is trying, Fareeha can see that, and she is not entirely blameless either.  There is no sense in wasting energy on blaming Ana for that which can no longer be changed.

Yes, she is afraid of her ability to be a mother, to not repeat the same mistakes Ana made, or make her own, worse mistakes, but if she and Ana can heal after what happened between them, if they can let go of the past (even if it is not fixed, is not forgiven, is not forgotten), if they can heal and find happiness, then surely any child of Fareeha’s would be able to do the same.

Children scare Fareeha, and they likely always will; there are a thousand things one can do wrong in the raising of them, a thousand ways in which Fareeha might fail as a mother.

Children scare Fareeha, but not in a way that is insurmountable, they scare her in the same way command does—they are a responsibility, and a large one, but one she is not wholly unprepared for.

Children scare Fareeha, but she wants them, and if she and Ana can let go of their past, then surely her children can forgive her for whatever mistakes she will make while raising them.

When next Angela mentions children—not theirs, even hypothetically, she has not even _approached_ broaching such a subject since Fareeha rejected categorically the notion of motherhood nearly a year before, even if Fareeha suspects it is something Angela rather wants—Fareeha’s response is not the same as it once might have been; is not a clumsy, panicked refusal, but a possibility: _If they were our children…_

It is not the same as accepting the idea, is not the same as saying she is ready, that this is something she wants, wholeheartedly, that this is something she is prepared for, but it is _something_ , is a suggestion that, perhaps in the future, Fareeha might be willing to reopen such a discussion.

Children scare Fareeha, but as she lets go of her past, she has room to embrace a possible future.


	2. Balance/Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technical difficulties nearly prevented this being posted but after an hour of frustrated tears it all worked out. c'est la vie

# Balance

Few things in life are perfect—and, certainly, the relationship between Fareeha and Angela is not one of them.  It is not perfect; they cannot will away each other’s problems, nor their own, can only work to be better, and to try and support one another through that which cannot be changed.  It is not perfect; more often than not, although they want the same thing, they cannot agree on why that is so, or how to achieve said goal—and so they talk through everything, and eventually settle on a compromise.  It is not perfect, but that is not such a bad thing, for it moves the both of them towards moderation, more often than not.

A balance: where once Fareeha slept too little, rose too early, haunted by nightmares and restless with guilt, now she finds herself lingering in bed an hour later on each morning when they have spent the night together, not wanting to leave or to disturb Angela, bringing her average five hours of sleep up to a slightly more respectable six and half.

A balance: where once Angela worked late, and rose later still, always on the cusp of tardiness for morning meetings, Fareeha has convinced her to sleep two hours earlier, pulling the both of them into bed by 23:30, and although it did not suit Angela’s night owl habits, not at first, Fareeha, persistent, punctual, and persuasive, eventually won out.

A balance: Fareeha is too quick to act, too impatient, cannot stand long silences, is always wanting to solve things, and quickly, preempting conversations that no one is quite prepared for, at the time she begins speaking—and Angela is not _ever_ ready to discuss difficult subjects, so Fareeha is forced to moderate herself, to not be so brash, to take a more measured approach than the one she favors.

A balance: left to her own devices, Angela would not act at all, would simply avoid things until she could do so no longer, and then deal with the inevitable fallout of such avoidance; Fareeha is working to break her girlfriend of that habit, is actively encouraging her to be more proactive, and yes, sometimes Angela is not ready to have some of the discussions Fareeha begins, but Fareeha rather suspects she never _will_ be ready.

A balance: her sense of duty has imbued Fareeha with a reckless selflessness—she takes risks she ought not to, at times, unafraid of the consequences her actions may have for herself, so long as she can protect others, so long as no one else need suffer for her failures—and Angela, who is selfish, would not see Fareeha die for any cause, pleads with her to _be careful_ and Fareeha finds that the words follow her, and she becomes so.

A balance: losing things, and the fear which accompanies such, has made Angela selfish, made her cling desperately to what little in life she thinks is _hers_ , unwilling to risk being alone again; for all that Fareeha loves Angela, she finds such stifling, and with time, and effort, she manages to help Angela reach a point where, although her fears will never truly be controllable, her response to them is almost normal, is manageable. 

A balance: Fareeha often feels she has too little control, of herself, of her situation, of her life, often feels that she is only one slip away from losing herself, from breaking, as Ana did, abandoning her place and her duty and her _self_   because sometimes it is all much too much; when she has those bad days, when she wants to leave and never to look back, when she is certain that nothing comes of what she does, is certain that she can never truly protect the people she swore to, or be her own person, when she has those bad days, Angela is there for her, is there to remind her the good she has already done, the change she has already enacted, is there to remind her that a moment of weakness is not such a terrible thing.

A balance: Angela never surrenders control, if she can help it, needs to feel always that that she is not a victim of circumstance, not anymore, and does so by keeping a routine, as best she is able, by maintaining a tight hold on her technology, when she can, by shutting down any suggestion that she is less than one hundred percent capable of caring for their entire team, and researching, and participating in relief work, all at once; if Fareeha cannot force Angela to surrender that control, well, such is no surprise, but with time, and trust, she has shown Angela that she is someone Angela can safely be herself around, _all_ of herself, without worrying that anything less than perfection will end in rejection, and eventually, when it is just the two of them, Angela begins to let down her guard.

The relationship between the two of them is not perfect, consists of balances and compromises and promises they can only hope to keep.

(The relationship between the two of them is not perfect, but it is a better relationship than Fareeha has with anyone else that she loves, and she is willing to work for it, is willing to do what is required of her so that she and Angela can be happy, together, and knows that Angela will do the same.)

The relationship between the two of them is not perfect, but just because it is not perfect does not mean that it is not _good_ , and moreover good _for_ them.  They balance one another and, Fareeha thinks, there is little more she could ask for.

Little more she could ask for, save for this: that they make things more permanent, more official, that they each incorporate the other not only into their lives, their thoughts, and their habits, but their living space.

Likely, Fareeha does not ask at the best of times, blurting out the suggestion when Angela, tired and sore from the mission earlier in the day, grumbles about having to leave Fareeha’s quarters in the evening and walk all the way back to her own just to fetch her toothbrush and clothes for the next morning, but when she says it, words only half considered, a rush of _you-wouldn’t-have-to-walk-back-if-we-lived-together,_ Angela answers simply:

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Fareeha asks, just to be certain, because things in her life are all too often far more complicated.

“Yes,” answers Angela, “As long as we move to my quarters.  I don’t want to be running all the way across the base at 03:00 because someone did something stupid again and needs emergency surgery.”

“Fair enough,” Fareeha agrees, because Angela has a rather good point, and being further from the rec room and gym is a small enough sacrifice, if it means that Angela will agree to this, will surrender some of her autonomy for the sake of making Fareeha happy.

(Fareeha knows that, after so many years alone, it can be hard for Angela, sometimes, to admit that she needs others, and harder still for her to feel she has nowhere to escape to, when she is thinking and feeling things she is afraid that others would not like, if they saw—it means much, that Angela now trusts her enough to share those feelings in front of her, to allow the two of them the vulnerability that accompanies cohabitation.)

 _Fair enough_ , Fareeha says, although she thinks it more than fair, and to keep herself from giving voice to the depth of her emotions, in the moment, knowing there will be time for them later but for now they are tired, she makes a joke, “ _But_ if we move into your quarters, I’m the one who gets to decorate.”

A frown, “What’s wrong with the way I decorate?”

“ _Angela_ ,” Fareeha says, “You think navy blue constitutes a pop of color.”

“Blue is a color!”

“ _Navy blue_ is a neutral.  I think I would know,” when she says it, Fareeha gestures to draw Angela’s attention to the decoration of the room they currently occupy; unlike Angela, Fareeha has never shied away from color, or prints, or both at once.

Apparently deciding that Fareeha will not easily be convinced, Angela leaves the topic at that for the time being, saying only, “We can discuss this in the morning.  I’m tired, and I want to go back to my—our—quarters.  Are you coming?”

Fareeha’s heart flutters a bit, when Angela says it like that, _our quarters_ , already making the adjustment to accommodate the both of them when she speaks, and decides they have more than enough time to discuss this later—if not in the morning then surely in the weeks to come, as they discuss expectations and meanings and other, more practical things.

For now, it is time to sleep, and for now, they are at peace, as for now, they are as one.

It will be a balance, Fareeha knows, will not come easily to them as their schedules will shift further and their preferences will not always win out, but their entire relationship is a balance, and they are, both of them, stronger for it.

It will be a balance, finding all the new ways in which the two of them fit together, and the ways in which they will not quite, yet—maybe will not ever—and will need to work around their differences, in order to find an arrangement which suits them both.

It will be a balance and, Fareeha knows, it will be for the best. 

# Chaos

Despite the stereotypes surrounding scientists, Angela is not, herself, a messy person.  She is not particularly neat, either, but by virtue of not having many possessions she is rarely in a position where it is possible to make a mess—particularly when all of her documents, all of her photographs, all of her keepsakes are stored digitally.  After losing two homes, first to the Omnic Crisis and then to explosion at headquarters, she has few enough physical objects left to her, and little desire to replace them.

It is easier, or so she tells herself, to have less; everything has a place, so cleaning is done quickly.  It is easier to convince herself that if she needs to, she can leave at a moment’s notice, that she need not be trapped here, in Overwatch, not any longer.  It is easier to pretend that she has not grown attached to these people, to this place, to pretend that she has nothing to lose and therefore need not fear the future.

As she trips over a box of Fareeha’s winter clothes, Angela is forced to acknowledge that she cannot pretend such any longer—she _has_ grown attached, to Overwatch, to Watchpoint: Gibraltar, and to Fareeha.  There will be no more easily running away from this, and in truth she does not want to, most days.

Instead, she wants this, wants she and Fareeha to be entwined, two lives weaving in and out of one another—not a whole, not one being, but attached, nonetheless.  She wants this, she reminds herself, as she stubs her toe on the corner of a box for the fourth time in as many days.  A little inconvenience is worth Fareeha’s love.

However, there is still some difficulty that comes with moving.

First, a picture:

The image is harmless, in and of itself, is only a picture of a young Fareeha with both of her parents, but the placement leaves much to be desired.

“Fareeha,” Angela begins, “You have to hang that in the living room.”

“We don’t have anything on the wall in here,” Fareeha points out, and that is true—their bedroom walls are, for now, mercifully bare.

“I love you,” says she, “But I _will not_ have a picture with your mother in our bedroom.  It’s too weird.”

“I had this picture up in my bedroom before,” argues Fareeha.

“Yes, and I didn’t say anything because it was _your_ bedroom,” she did not _say_ anything, but she did very pointedly avoid looking at the picture.  “I know you miss her—believe me, I understand what it is to lose a parent—but she was my superior officer for nearly fifteen years, and she did her very best to give all of us under her command the impression that she was _always watching_.  I am _not_ going to fuck you if that is hanging in here.”

“Alright,” Fareeha relents, “Alright.  I’ll move it.  But really, how bad could it have been?”

“Ask Jesse,” Angela says, flatly.

Second, the question of space:

Sometimes, it is easy to forget that there are still things she does not know about Fareeha, close as they have become.  Other times, she suddenly realizes that there are important questions she has left unasked, and wonders how she could ever have overlooked them in the first place.

This is the latter.

“ _Shit!_ ” she says suddenly, looking about their living room and realizing, abruptly, that with the addition of the armchair Fareeha brought from her own quarters, there is not much in the way of floor space—nor is there in their bedroom, which is dominated by a bed large enough to sleep the two of them.

“You okay?” Fareeha asks, looking up from the lamp she is assembling in the corner.

“Do you need room to pray?” Angela asks, and wonders how, after so many months together, and their time as friends before, she does not know this.  Visiting Fareeha’s quarters before, she never thought to check.

To her relief, Fareeha only laughs, “No.  I’m not sure if you noticed the tattoo, but I’m not exactly the most observant person.”

“Oh,” says Angela, “Right.”  That really ought to have occurred to her, as seeing as she herself forwent getting tattooed for religious reasons.

“Thank you for asking, though,” Fareeha is still amused, from her tone, but her thanks seems genuine enough.  “I might commandeer your desk on occasion, though.  I always build my dad a ship in a bottle for his birthday, since we used to make them together when I as a kid.”

“That’s fine,” Angela agrees, and then has a thought, “They aren’t explosive like Torbjörn’s models, right?”

Third, there is food:

“Angelï?” Fareeha’s voice calls from the other side of the door.

“Yes, dear?” Angela calls back.

“You have a _lot_ of food in here.”

“It’s in case of emergencies,” she answers, winding her way through the half-assembled furniture in their living room and towards the pantry with Fareeha.

(In retrospect, Angela ought to have anticipated this—she knows it is not normal, to keep so much food as she does in her living space, to especially not when much of her cooking is done in the main communal kitchen, but she starved, during the Crisis, she and her parents both, and she has never talked about it but it lingers, that fear, that there might be another Crisis, another war, and food will be scarce and she will have to again eat whatever it is that can be found, whether or not it is kashrut or even, really, food.  In the brief period she and Jesse were assigned quarters together, as new recruits, he understood, had done the same.  Fareeha could not.)

“You don’t even like half of these things!” Fareeha says.

“No,” Angela agrees, _no, but they keep._

“Can I toss them, then?”

“No!” she says it more urgently than she wants to, and immediately regrets the outburst.

“Alright,” says Fareeha, dragging the word out a bit.  “They can stay, I suppose.”  Her tone says _We will talk about this later_ , but she does not question Angela, and the matter drops, for the time being.

Fourth, there is their closet:

“How many floral button fronts does one person need?” Angela grouses as the two of them sit on the floor of their bedroom, taking a break from fighting with their closet in an attempt to stow away all of their clothes neatly.

(They failed, and Angela could swear the Hawaiian print monstrosity left lying on the bed amidst a pile of other shirts is mocking her.)

“How many identical white lab coats does one woman need?” Fareeha shoots back.

“Touché,” she really cannot deny that she has a lab coat too many—but it is easier to go longer without doing laundry if she has more of them, “But I don’t want to throw any of them away.”

“Well,” Fareeha says, “In that case, we’re going to need to buy a wardrobe, because I don’t want to get rid of my clothes, either.”

“Do we have space for one?”  Looking around the room, that certainly does not seem to be the case.

“I have an engineering degree, there’s always space.”

Angela groans, “You said that about the closet, too.”

Fifth, there is this:

Too-bright colors fill a now unfamiliar space as Angela returns to her—their—quarters after a mission.  She needs quiet, needs to be alone, needs to quiet her racing thoughts, to process what she has seen so she can calm herself enough to be presentable again, and Fareeha is not there, not yet, so she ought to be fine but like this, the mess is suddenly overwhelming and she does not know why but she suddenly _cannot_ deal with it, cannot look at the boxes still scattered throughout their quarters without her heartrate accelerating and her anxiety spiking.

(She does know, of course, what it is—and some detached part of herself rattles off a diagnosis by rote—but that is not helpful, not right now.  Naming things is powerful but it is not always enough.)

She stumbles through the boxes and into their bathroom—blissfully plain, and neat, and clean, and that is where Fareeha finds her, face pressed to the cool tile of their bathroom floor, breaths finally starting to even.

By now, Fareeha has surely heard from the others what happened—likely that is why she came looking for Angela—and she does not ask the particulars, does not ask anything, just rubs small circles on Angela’s lower back as Angela struggles to find equilibrium, to be able to speak again.

When she does what she says is this:

“I’m sorry,” because she _is_ sorry, even though she knows that she should not be, not for this.

A few months ago, Fareeha might have said something like _Don’t be,_ but by now she must know that such does not work, and asks instead, “Is it always this bad?”

“No,” she tucks her knees under her chin as she speaks, “It was just—I got back here, and I thought I would be fine, and I _might’ve_ been if it weren’t so bright and messy and unfamiliar.  I didn’t know what to do.”

“Should I clean up the bedroom for you?”

“You don’t have to,” she thinks it is bad enough that Fareeha is stuck having to comfort her now.

“I want to help,” Fareeha says and sounds distressed and—of course, Angela should have thought about this, should have remembered how much Fareeha hates to be powerless, and offered her an out.

“Colors make it worse—bright ones.  I don’t know why.” 

“Okay,” says Fareeha, tone the same as when she is strategizing in meetings, “We can move the bright stuff out of the bedroom, if that helps?”

“It will,” says Angela.

Fareeha rises to leave, then, likely with the intent to move things, but Angela grabs her hand to stop her from going.

“Wait,” says she, “You being here helps more.”

She is surprised to find that is true; despite the inconvenience of the chaos of moving, despite all the little problems that have arisen along the way, despite the fact that she thought she needed to be alone, for this, despite everything, they are better off with one another, than without, and she is glad they are making this step.

Together, they can find a way to work things out, can find solace even in the worst of times.

A little chaos will not hold them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so tired idek what to say in this authors note. hopefully ur day is goin great


	3. Discovery/Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my computer's charging cable died so i typed this all on my phone. hell and suffering. but i persisted bc im literally hosting this prompt week i cant miss a day LMAO

# Discovery

When she discovers that Ana is alive, Angela fails Fareeha. Rather than supporting Fareeha, who undoubtedly needs her at such a time, it is she to whom Fareeha must explain things, and when Fareeha isolates herself—Angela does not stop her, is glad for it, if anything, for then she need not face her lover, need not modulate her own response in order to keep up appearances.

(For that would be what she would have to do, if they spoke; her reaction to Ana’s return is not an appropriate one, not one which she could express to Fareeha without hurting her, without seeming as if she is taking away from the magnitude of Fareeha’s own situation.  It is never appropriate to see another’s suffering and to express jealousy, but that is what Angela feels, when Ana returns, after the initial shock wears off—jealousy that Fareeha’s mother has returned from the dead, and her own never shall.)

When Fareeha discovers that her mother is returning—for, it seems, she knew already that Ana was alive—Angela does not do enough to support her, thinks she is doing the best she can by not actively making the situation worse.  It is not, of course, _enough_ , but one’s best is not always enough.  One comes to accept such things, as a surgeon or as a soldier.

(Or, to accept the reality of such a statement, even if one is never satisfied by such.  Even if Angela will never be happy with her inability to save everyone she feels she needs to, even if the fact that she can fail—will again—will always chafe, she knows that it is _true_.  This is one of those times that she will fail, one of those times when her shortcomings will get the better of her intentions, and there is little enough she can do to change that, even if she tries.  If she speaks to Fareeha about this, it will only hurt her, will only make things worse, but avoiding her will do the same.  It is an impossible situation.)

When the reasons they have both been avoiding one another come to light, Angela realizes that she has failed Fareeha again.  Avoiding her seemed like the better of the two bad options, and she thought that Fareeha wanted to be alone, and perhaps that was true—but she needed not to be, and that is something Angela failed to note, the reason she has, once again, not done enough, not been enough, to protect the woman she loves.

(Not that she can protect Fareeha from this, not really, cannot protect her from her past, from whatever is happening between she and her mother, from whatever it is that shall happen to them in the future, but she can try, she _must_ try, for she loves Fareeha, and does not want her to suffer any more than she already has.  Perhaps some of this pain, this confusion, is necessary, so that Fareeha and Ana can heal, can find a way to move their relationship forward, but nevertheless Angela wishes that it did not have to be this way, that she could take Fareeha’s pain from her, could rewrite the past such that Fareeha need never suffer this—whatever it is.)

When Angela learns why it is that Fareeha has been avoiding her and Ana both—then, she does not fail.  It would, perhaps, be overstating things to say that Angela knows what it is she must do, would be overstating things to suggest that Angela is prepared for such a revelation, would be overstating things to say that she has learned from her past mistakes; but, nevertheless, she is able to provide the support Fareeha needs, in the moment, is there for her lover not only because she needs to be, but because she wants to be, and that, then and there, is enough.

(Of course, Angela wishes she could be more than just _enough_ for Fareeha, could be perfect for her, could solve her problems and soothe her fears, but she is not, and she is doing the best she can, now, and she is not a fool—even if she and Fareeha were perfect for one another, love cannot heal everything.  People who have led lives such as theirs know better than to take satisfaction for granted.)

When Fareeha tells Angela what it is that has been plaguing her, what it is that has kept her awake at night and driven her from bed before dawn, it is not what Angela expects.  If Fareeha had only been angry with Ana, it might make sense, for by leaving Ana asked more than was fair from her daughter, and by returning she does so again.  If Fareeha had only needed time alone to consider things, to process her mother’s return and to make sense of what it will mean for her, it might make sense, for Angela has done much the same, and knows she will likely do so again.  If Fareeha had any other reason, it might make sense—but, by the time Fareeha is halfway done with her explanation, this does, too.

(Angela has long suspected that there was something Fareeha was hiding, even if she did not know that it was this, can see in the way her lover reacts after difficult missions, as if she needs something, anything, to tether her to herself, that there is _something_ more to Fareeha’s responses than the usual post-traumatic stress.  To hear confirmation of such is almost a relief—would be, were it not for the fact that Fareeha is clearly so ashamed of such, so embarrassed, so afraid of how Angela will respond.)

While Fareeha is explaining, she does not interject, does not say any of the many things which come to mind, does not ask any of the questions she has; she listens, and says nothing, and allows Fareeha to hold her, because she knows it is easier for Fareeha to be vulnerable when she is able to maintain some façade of being in control—she can still be close to Fareeha this way, can still rub her back softly just to remind her that she is here, now, and not going to let go, and Fareeha need not fear being alone.

She does not say _You don’t have to worry about me reporting you_ , although it is true—Fareeha is not the only one of the two of them who lied on her medical intake forms, and even if the Recall were not so unofficial, so illegal, so completely lacking in oversight, it is the original Overwatch which taught her that such things were sometimes best overlooked.

She does not say _I already suspected as much_ , because to say so would only make Fareeha more anxious about all of this, would make her wonder what has given her away, when Angela very much doubts anyone else will ever know, will be allowed close enough to Fareeha to see; if anyone did realize, likely it would be for the same reason Angela did, that they have kept a similar secret, and they, too, would surely hesitate to speak of it.

She does not say _I love you anyway_ , because the anyway makes it sound as if this is something to be ashamed of, is something she loves Fareeha _despite_ , when, in fact, it is a part of who Fareeha is; she does not say _I love you anyway,_ because to do so sounds as if her love for Fareeha is conditional, and truly, in this moment, she does not believe it could ever be.

For once, Angela does not say or do the wrong thing, knows in the moment not only what Fareeha wants but what she _needs_ , and acts on it.

“I love you,” says she, “Whoever you are.”

It is simple but, at the same time, it is not, for it is, somehow, what Fareeha needs to hear in that moment.

(Angela never thought she could be this for someone else, a comfort, never thought she would reach a point where she knew what to say and when, never thought there would be someone who needed _her_ , and not anyone else.)

Fareeha cries, when Angela says that, but her tears are those of relief and not distress, and Angela knows what to do in such a situation, knows how to hold Fareeha as she does so and what gentle reassurances to croon at her.  Fareeha cries, and is not alone when she does so, is not weaker for it, or in any way diminished in either of their eyes.  Fareeha cries, but it is no terrible thing.

Saying the right thing is not easy, being vulnerable is not easy, accepting that neither of them is perfect, and that they cannot simply expect situations to resolve themselves, but must work to understand one another and do what is best for one another is not easy; it is not easy but, like so many of the things they do, it is right.

Here is another thing Angela discovers when Ana returns: the relationship she has with Fareeha may not be perfect, may not always be simple, may not be as if they were made for one another, but that does not mean that it is any less worth pursuing.

Here is another thing Angela discovers when Ana returns: loving another person is difficult, requires effort and dedication as well as devotion.

Here is another thing Angela discovers when Ana returns: both she and Fareeha may be imperfect, and being in a relationship may be difficult at times, but she is willing to do whatever is required of her to make Fareeha happy, to learn so that she will not fail Fareeha again, for this—this may be imperfect, but Fareeha’s love is still the most precious thing she has ever had.

Here is another thing Angela discovers when Ana returns: she wants to be there for Fareeha, even when Fareeha cannot give voice to what it is she needs, even when it is difficult to find the right words to say, even when it means putting Fareeha first.

Here is another thing Angela discovers when Ana returns: what it truly is to love someone, and to be loved by them in return.

# Loss

On the twenty-third of April in the third year of their relationship, Fareeha wakes and knows already that the day will be a difficult one.  Every year, it is a difficult day, is one filled with guilt and frustration on Angela’s behalf—for she still blames herself, to some degree, for what happened thirty-four years before—but this year will be more difficult than most, and Fareeha knows it already; on this anniversary of her parent’s death, Angela is officially older than either of them ever were.

(They talked about it, the night before, after Angela prepared two Yahrzeit candles, side by side.  Angela does not know if her parents died on the same day, knows only that she last saw her father the day her mother died, before a collapsing building separated them, and she cannot imagine one of her parents without the other—so she does this, mourns both at once, and hopes that she is right, and that his injuries claimed him swiftly, that he did not bleed out slowly or worse, dehydrate in the rubble over a period of days.)

Normally, Fareeha would go for a run in the morning—and lately, she has even tried to convince Angela to join her for such, has woken her grumpy fiancée and bribed her with kisses into getting dressed and out of the door of their quarters just before dawn—but today is not a normal day, and Fareeha knows well how paralyzing grief can be.  Angela can sleep for as long as she needs to.

(When Ana died, Fareeha stayed in bed for a week.  She should not have, and her mother would have hated it—will hate it, if Fareeha ever mentions as much to her—but when it happened she could not move, could not put on her uniform, could not complete drills without thinking of her mother, how Ana would have done better or, else, disapproved, how she would have wanted some other, better life for Fareeha than that one.  Such thoughts were bitter on Fareeha’s tongue, and complicated further her grieving—how could she mourn a woman she loved but could not forgive?)

When Angela wakes the day will begin, and all the complicated emotions that surround grief and mourning with it, but for now Fareeha is alone with her thoughts in the stillness of the hour pre-dawn, and for now, Angela _seems_ peaceful enough.

(Fareeha wonders what she looked like, all those years ago, what she might look like now on the anniversary of Ana’s death, if it had been real.  Would she be like Angela used to be, standing tall with a too-straight back as she recites from memory the words of mourning others taught her?  Would she be like Angela is now, more open in her grief, but still, tall, and strong as she can be, even when she feels weakest, because she thinks that is what her parents would have expected of her?  Would she be like her father was, at her mother’s funeral, sagging with grief and somehow diminished by it?  She cannot imagine—but someday, she will know, unless she dies first.)

 On the first year, Fareeha made the mistake of asking Angela if she would visit her parents’ graves, and she almost winces, remembering the mistake.  In retrospect, it should, perhaps, have been obvious that they do not have any—most victims of the Omnic Crisis were buried in mass graves, if enough of their bodies remained to be gathered up by volunteers weeks, months, _years_ later, after the fighting had cleared up.  There is a monument, where Angela’s town once stood, with a list of the names of the lost, the fallen, most only _presumably_ buried there, a jumble of bones and rot and dust—there is a monument, but Angela does not like to visit it.

(It is not the same, but Fareeha thinks she understands.  Her mother was given a monument, too, even if the one built to her was all her own.  If even a monument built _for_ Ana Amari could seem so impersonal as hers did, when Fareeha saw it in that first year, so obviously built to comfort the living and not to honor the dead, then Fareeha cannot imagine how the monument to Angela’s town must feel to visit.  It could not possibly be _for_ her parents, or any of the dead, could only be for those who want to gawk at a piece of history and say they are remembering something that all who truly remember wish that they could forget.  Fareeha would not want to visit such a place either.)

Now, Fareeha knows that Angela prefers not to go anywhere on this day.  Tradition dictates that she ought to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish for her parents before a minyan, or so she has told Fareeha, and she did so for many years, but tradition also dictates that such is a job for a son and although Angela’s parents may have only known her as such, she never was their son, not really.

(Fareeha, too, became someone her mother had never known in the time she was dead, became Pharah, built herself into something greater than either of them could ever have imagined she would be, when they fought over her decision to enlist so many years before, but now her mother _does_ know, because she is still alive, can still see the ways in which Fareeha has changed and tell her _I love you just the same,_ but Angela’s parents never will, and Angela will never have the solace of knowing that her parents would have accepted her, or be able to come to terms with a rejection, will only ever be able to wonder what it is they would have thought, turning over in her mind the few conversations she can recall with them and looking for clues as to whether or not they knew.)

Rather than going anywhere, the two of them will stay here, in their quarters, as the candle burns down over the course of the day, and talk about nothing until, at last, something one of them says will remind Angela of her parents, somehow, and then they will discuss that instead. 

(Perhaps this is Angela’s way of introducing Fareeha to her parents, since she can never actually do such a thing, perhaps including Fareeha in their living memory is a way of incorporating her into the family.  Fareeha has never asked why—she was the opposite, when her mother died, was almost glad, sometimes, that now no one would expect her to talk about her mother, to put in a word for them, was relieved to think that she would never have to introduce another girlfriend to Ana and then to deal with their inevitable reaction to meeting a hero; now she is a hero in her own right, and she wonders if her future children will feel the same relief after her passing, or Angela’s.  She hopes not, but she would understand, she thinks, if that were the case.)

They will talk and Angela will drink—if in moderation—while Fareeha abstains.  Despite not being terribly observant in most regards, Fareeha observes most rules related to consumption, more out of habit than any sense of religious obligation.

(After her mother died, Fareeha did drink, but only for one weekend.  It is not an experience she is eager to repeat, and she suspects that the smell of hard liquor will always remind her of that one, terrible lonely weekend, when her world had narrowed to only herself, the bottles in her hand, and a god she cursed for abandoning her—abandoning her mother—and leaving her alone in her grief, having never had a chance at reconciliation.  Fortunately, Angela’s drink of choice is only wine, so Fareeha need not be reminded of that weekend, of the things that nearly were left unsaid.)

In the late afternoon, before sunset, Angela will cook for the both of them some traditional food she remembers her mother having served once, and will set two additional places at the table—and Fareeha will say nothing if she gets misty eyed while doing so.

(Ana never cooked with Fareeha, when she was younger, for Fareeha had no interest in learning, and Fareeha remembers having regretted that, in the year her mother was dead, remembers wishing she had bothered to learn old family recipes that had survived generations, only to be left behind when her mother was.  Now that her mother is returned, Fareeha has made an effort to learn some of them; she is certain Angela was too young, when rationing began, to have ever learned to cook from her mother, but Fareeha has never brought herself to ask when and how Angela learned the recipes she uses on days like this one.)

Afterwards, she will watch the candle burn down as the sun sets, and Fareeha will say nothing, will only be there, if she wants to reach out for a hug, or to hold a hand, or to cry on a shoulder, and then she will be done—or, so it has been, in the years before.  Perhaps this one will be different; it is more significant, surely, this year, the first that she is older than her parents ever lived to be.

(Perhaps Fareeha will someday experience the same pain; perhaps she will not.  In either case, she does not know, now, how it will feel for Angela, cannot compare that experience to her own after her mother died.  It is different, she suspects, when one’s parents die young, as Angela’s did.  She suspects, but she does not know, and never will—and despite everything she suffered in the wake of her mother’s undeath, she is grateful for that.)

Whatever this day brings, when Angela wakes, Fareeha will be here if Angela needs her, as she wishes someone had been when her own mother died—and she knows that someday, Angela will do the same for her, will help to make bearable a pain that, a decade ago, seemed unbearable.

Even in loss, neither of them will ever be truly alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> believe it or not my original fills for today were SADDER than this so. yeah.


	4. Light/Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, forgot to ever upload the rest of this fic

# Light

In Egypt during the summer when the light hits the desert the world is unbearably bright.  That is Fareeha’s first memory—the light—how she had to squint to see and even that was hardly enough for her to be able to make out the world beyond her mother.  A photograph was taken that same day, a rare one where Ana was once again in their home, and Fareeha has it still; in it, she can barely be seen, face obscured by a lens flare her mother did not anticipate.  With a rifle, Ana is an excellent shot, but the same cannot be said for the time she spends behind the camera.

That impression—the light, blinding; her mother, her world; her face, obscured—it characterizes how she thinks of Egypt, of what it is to exist with her mother.  Ana is a bright, shining thing, a hero, enough to eclipse Fareeha even if she did not, does not, try to. 

(Or, the memory of her is.  These days, the reality of Ana and the way in which she exists in the public consciousness are not the same, for dead Ana would not recognize undead Ana if she saw her in the mirror, but that is neither here nor there.  What matters is that Ana, in the minds of those whom Fareeha meets, is still that radiant creature, is still something _greater_ than human, is bright enough to obscure Fareeha almost entirely.)

The light of Ana’s legacy glares accusingly off of the surface of the earth in Egypt, just as the sun does, a reminder of what Fareeha is not, and sometimes it is all she can see—her own wonting. 

(It makes sense—her family is of that land.  The Amari _are_ Egypt, are nothing when removed from that context, or so she is led to believe.  Their pride, their tradition, their sense of purpose and obligation and duty, because they are a part of some greater legacy; it is all Egyptian.   Of course the very land would reflect Ana, when Egypt _is a part_ of Ana, just as the reverse, that the legacy of Amari protectors is an ancient one, is true.)

When Fareeha tries to see herself, in the shimmering columns of air that rise off of the hot sand, or reflecting off of the water of the Nile, or mirrored in the panes of glass which decorate Egypt’s newest buildings, she can see nothing—cannot see a woman who is all the things she claims to be, all the roles she has filled, all the experiences she has had.  She can see nothing but what she is not.  She can see nothing, but she can see Ana, can see her in the way that she stands, in her tattoo, in the line of her eyes and the way that she smiles.

(They are different, too, in many ways, but those differences are obscured, and the similarities highlighted.  Even if Fareeha wanted to ignore the ways in which she and her mother are similar, she cannot, for every time she meets someone who knew her mother, they speak of Ana, and every time she meets someone who did not, they ask of her.  Both parties tell her, in the end, how similar the two of them are, in look, in dedication, in disposition—as if she needed them to illuminate her.)

Ana, her mother, is a luminary, in the truest sense of the word.  Characterized by light—bright, blinding, giving life but capable, too, of obscuring it—eminent, especially among their people, where she is remembered as Egypt’s final line of defense, their one hero who survived the Crisis, and a celestial being, at least to the public’s mind, particularly now, following her death, an angel, a saint, one of a thousand things she did not believe in, in her first life, and could never be in her second.

Ana obscures everything—hides from Fareeha the rest of the world, so blinded was she as a child by worship of her mother; as a young woman by the fact that she lived in opposition to her mother; and now, haunted by her mother, she is blind again, to anything but the struggle to find her place in a world where her mother is omnipresent and absent at the same time, to anything but the ways in which her mother has always defined her life, and will continue to, if nothing changes.

Ana is the one whom people see, when they see Fareeha; it is not her face they recognize, but the other face they project onto it.  When they hear her name, no doubt they hear _Amari_ first, and cease to listen after that—and why would they not?  In so many ways, Fareeha finds herself a lesser version of her mother, a lesser soldier, a lesser hero, a lesser Amari.  Why would anyone else see any differently?

(Once, Fareeha sought to escape her mother’s radiance, went the furthest from the desert Ana has always called home she could, to stay with her father in Canada.  Within her first two weeks, unfamiliar with the danger of the weather, she had snow blindness, and when her father took her to see a doctor he glanced at the name on the chart and asked _Amari? As in_ the _Amari?_ in the same tone everyone used to ask questions about her mother, in those days, and Fareeha replied in the affirmative before she could think to do otherwise.  The conversation that followed was nearly more painful than her eyes.)

Even Ana’s eyes are lighter than Fareeha’s, are golden like the afternoon sun—and perhaps that is a petty complaint, next to the rest, but a lifetime of people none too surreptitiously glancing at her eyes when she confirms she is her mother’s daughter, a lifetime of people remarking upon her mother’s extraordinary eye color, has made her bitter here too.  True, Ana is a sniper, and so her eyes have made her career, have been vitally important in the doing of her job, but what of Fareeha’s brown eyes?  Is there no depth in them, no beauty?

(Brown eyes, the world tells her, are not beautiful, are not special, cannot kill a man from 4000 meters.  _A pity_ , people tell her, _that you do not have your mother’s eyes._ She never knows if they mean the color or sniping prowess.)

So Fareeha comes to hate the light, and all it symbolizes, comes to hate all that which she lacks and her mother does not.

Therefore, Fareeha is nearly certain, too, that she will hate one Dr. Angela Ziegler. 

In many ways, on paper, Angela sounds like a worse version of her mother, even more drawn to the limelight, famous as she became for her discoveries so young, even more sanctimonious, with her discussions of peace, even more bright, in so many ways, from her halo and styling down to her appearance.

There are a thousand things Fareeha hates about Angela before the two of them ever meet.

(It does not help that her mother clearly respected Angela, even if she disagreed with her; Fareeha feels she was never afforded the same courtesy.)

Fareeha thinks she will hate Angela Ziegler, and she is almost right—for Mercy, as a symbol, rubs her the wrong way.

(It sends the wrong sort of message, Fareeha thinks at first, wearing the angel costume on a battlefield.  After the second or third time the ridiculous wings enable Angela to save her life, Fareeha is willing to overlook it.)

But Angela is not Mercy, is nothing like her at all.

Mercy glows—literally and figuratively—is meant to be a shining beacon of hope on the battlefield, is meant to be above the controversies which plagued Overwatch in their final days, is meant to be something greater than human.

Angela does not glow—she is dark, in many ways, from her clothing to her countenance, is tired, and not nearly so cheerful off duty, and seems to prefer to avoid the limelight, when she can.  She is not Mercy, does not think herself some celestial being—knows that she is flawed, that she makes mistakes, hesitates.

(There is still a sense of confidence which surrounds Angela, of course, she is the best and she _knows_ it, but even the best is not good enough for her, and she is haunted by her failures.)

Fareeha is drawn to Angela because she is unexpected, and because she is so very different from herself.

(With the two of them together, Fareeha need not worry about being overlooked, there can be no clumsy comparisons, can be no eclipsing one another.  They are too different for anyone to attempt such a thing.)

It does not occur to Fareeha, for a long time, that she is the light half in their little dichotomy, that she is the brighter one, for once.  She thinks of them as being in many ways equal and opposite, but it is still beyond her to think of herself as being something that for so long she defined herself in _wont_ of.

It is difficult and then, one day, it is easy, as Angela whispers against her skin _you’re beautiful, you’re radiant_ , and suddenly—suddenly Fareeha realizes that she is.

She is not so because Angela told her, is not so because her mother is now diminished, is so because she has chosen to be a beacon to others, because she and because this is what she was born into, she is an _Amari_ , just as much as her mother, and her mother’s legacy is her own, too.

No longer will she run from it.

# Dark

The better part of Angela’s life has been lived in the darkness, in the cold, alone.  She was not born into it—not in the same way that Fareeha was born into all things light, the good and the bad—but it found her, nonetheless.

What memories remain of her early childhood are bright ones—the sunlight glinting off the lake near her home, squinting up at her parents, the sun behind them blinding her, how impossibly large and bright the first university laboratory she set foot in seemed, every surface gleaming—but the ones that follow are darker.

Smoke clogged the sky, the day her parents were killed, rising from their burning village to blot out the sun; she has lived in darkness since.

It followed her after the deaths of her parents, the feeling that she would never feel the warmth of their love again, never feel the heat of the sun the same way she did as a child; the fluorescent lights of her laboratories and operating theaters leave her cold in a way the sun never would.  She worried, too, that it was visible on her face, for that feeling of loneliness, of nothing, followed her wherever she went, hung over her conversations with others, even in what should have been moments of joy, and it follows her still.

(Might she have escaped it, had she tried?  In the present, it is impossible to say, but she knows, looking back, that she did not _want_ to, not truly, because it felt wrong, to be happy, when she knew that her parents would never be happy again, felt wrong to step into the light when she knew that her family was somewhere rotting in the darkness.)

So she began to seek it out, after a time, came to intentionally seek out whatever corner was furthest from conversation, to pick up shifts at night, to keep herself away from people who might tempt her to enjoy herself, came to believe, as a part of her still does, that darkness was what she deserved.

Why did she deserve that?  Why did she deserve to live, when her parents died?

(Still, sometimes, she does not know the answer to that question, for yes, she has done good in the world, with what she created, but someone else could have done so, eventually, someone who would not have made the same mistakes as she has, someone who _wanted_ to be seen, to be remembered, someone who was more suited to the limelight and to saving the world.  These days, she tries not to let it bother her as much, but she rather expects that it is a question which the world will never answer for her.)

Her first flight, she thought about it—thought about what her parents would have thought, had they lived to see her, arms extended before her as she jumped, and hoped, as she always does, that her wings might catch her before she fell.

(She hoped, then, too, that they would not.)

It was dark, that first night; a flight test during the day might have made more sense, but she thought it would be best to avoid any undue Icarus comparisons.  It was dark, and she remembers most strongly the moment before her wings caught her, and she was suddenly suspended in the air, when she was caught between the world below and the infinite dark and cold of space.  It was dark, and she was more falling than flying, and she looked heavenward and saw—nothing.  Not a star shone above her, blotted out by clouds and light pollution from the base nearby.

Even as the Valkyrie came to be a symbol of hope for others, that moment haunted her, the instant she thought she had failed, the half second that stood between life and death, and it follows her even now.  Such serves as a good reminder to her—all of her patients are themselves in that half second.  If she is to treat them, then she needs to be always aware of the darkness, all consuming, how even as she pulls patients from their deaths, stops them from falling to the ground below, she is pulling them back into a world which is equal parts uncertain and painful.

(It keeps her awake, on nights just as dark.  Has she truly saved anyone?  The people she brings back from the brink, they are soldiers, for the most part, destined to die horribly at some point or another, and when they live to see another day they only kill still more.  All of those deaths are on her head.)

Such is not a memento mori—it a world as full of turmoil and pain as theirs, death would be its own sort of mercy.  But she fears death, nonetheless.  On the day Swiss Headquarters exploded, she learned that for a fact, and lessons learned in blood are not easily forgotten.

There were people she might have saved, so many of them, but when the smoke filled her lungs, oily and black, she _ran_ , ran from the flames that licked at her heels and out into the daylight—what of it was not blotted out by the rising ashes—and she still hates that she made that decision.  If she had suppressed that instinct, who might still be with her?  How many might she have saved, if she had not run towards light?

After Overwatch was disbanded, she did her best to avoid the light altogether, sought her redemption in saving others far from both the sterile lights of the laboratory and the flashing of cameras; she sought atonement, although she knows, now, that there was no way to atone for running.

(There was no _need_ to atone, Fareeha tells her, because saving herself was not selfish, it was instinct.  She is not sure she believes that, not always, but it is so easy to agree with the things Fareeha says, even when they are too kind to her, so easy to imagine that the world is as just as the one Fareeha imagines, wherein there is a _right_ answer to everything, and her living to save still more people at a later date is such a one.  It is so easy to agree with the things Fareeha says, for Fareeha is surely a better person than her.)

Somewhere along the way, darkness ceased to be a comfort, and when she saw the light of her Overwatch beacon—she was not eager, quite, to return, and even still is not sure that she agrees with the Recall entirely, but she knew what she had to do.  She would not run from her comrades again, _will_ not, cannot leave them to die in such a foolhardy venture as the one Winston proposed that day.

So she returned, and once she walked towards that one light, it became easier to let herself be drawn in by others—now, she scarcely thinks twice about it. 

In the beginning, she fought that inclination, worried at her reaction when Fareeha would invite her to practice flight maneuvers, to eat lunch together, to spend time in each other’s company, fought to stay alone, in the darkness of her own space, but she is glad, now that she could not do so forever.

In the beginning, it scared her, how _bright_ Fareeha is, the light following her wherever she goes.  Never was Angela so aware of what it was to be blinded by the sun, but she stared nonetheless, let herself be taken in by Fareeha’s warmth, let herself be drawn out of isolation and into a crowd, and she is aware of it still, as she serves as a shadow to Fareeha in battle.

In the beginning, she worried about flying behind Fareeha, worried that she was too high, too fast, was soaring towards the sun, which flashed brightly off of Fareeha’s helmet and reflected into her eyes, leaving red patches on her vision even when she closed them, but she knows better, now, than to worry about such things.  Isolation may have protected her, may have felt safe, may have kept her from flying too high, but it smothered her, also, and Fareeha never will.

(Even when her lips are hot against Angela’s skin, when Angela feels like she is burning from the inside out, Fareeha never burns her.)

When in the skies with Fareeha, she fears neither falling nor flying into the dark. 

They are safe, together, in the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont wanna upload all the chapters at once so like, ill update whenever i remember i guess, lmao
> 
> hope u enjoyed this. i honestly dont remember writing it

**Author's Note:**

> prompts for the day were "adoption" and "letting go"
> 
> idk i had a couple more literal thoughts for fills but then i was like... nah. this is It its good and coherentish.


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